


Bliebe, Reste, Stay

by cherryblossomphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossomphil/pseuds/cherryblossomphil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musical Theatre!AU; Dan’s call time is in exactly 42 minutes, but all he wants to do is stay in Phil’s dressing room and watch him put on makeup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bliebe, Reste, Stay

**Author's Note:**

> in this fic, Phil plays the Emcee (x) in the musical, Cabaret (x) && Dan plays Enjolras (x) in Les Miserables (x). the title (translation: "stay, stay, stay") is a lyric from the first song in Cabaret, which is the Emcee’s most iconic song. 
> 
> there are a few pieces of musical theatre terminology sprinkled throughout the fic, but i feel like they are self-explanatory/you’ll understand in context. if you are confused about anything, though, feel free to shoot me an ask! and as always, comments and feedback are most appreciated!

“Carrie wants us over for dinner again next week.”

Dan hears Phil sigh. “ _Again_? That’s what, the third time this month? You’d think she’d understand our schedule isn’t exactly open.”

“Seriously. And especiallysince I’m in the same  _show_  with her?” Dan adds, squeezing a dollop of honey into the mug of tea he’s preparing. “Honestly, just because her death scene means she can go home halfway through the second act, doesn’t mean the rest of us can.” He picks up the mug and turns around. “Drink up.”

Phil smiles his thanks, pushing the sleeves of his dressing robe up to grab the handle. “Does my hair look okay?”

Dan squints. “…did you even do anything to it?”

“Git.” Phil turns away to look at the vanity, running a hand through his hair. “I ran out of the regular gel I use so I had to steal some from Jack. It’s not working out very well, though…” he shakes his head ruefully then takes a sip of his mug.

Dan laughs at his expression. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. The Emcee isn’t exactly the style icon of 1931.”

“Excuse you, the Emcee is fit as  _fuck_. I will fight you on this.”

“You don’t get an opinion, you  _are_  the Emcee!”

“My opinion should count double!”

Dan rolls his eyes in amusement. “Drink your tea, Lester. Don’t want you getting hoarse before the show.” He grabs his own mug and leans against the wall, sighing contently.

Matinee days are a welcome breather amidst their eight-a-week show schedule; there’s less chaos, less stress, less chance of any Big And Important Guests in their audiences that could set the entire cast on edge. Matinee days also meant shows ran staggered, giving more people the opportunity to see multiple shows. For Dan, that meant his call time was exactly 42 minutes later than usual, and he had time to relax in Phil’s dressing room before heading over to his own theater two streets away.

It’s the highlight of Dan’s week, if he’s honest. Performing on the West End is a dream come true, sure – how can it not be, especially when he’s cast in the most iconic show of musical theatre history? But the days are long and the nights are longer, and his dressing room is supposed to feel like a second home, only it  _doesn’t_. It never does. Not even when he brings in pictures and tapes up posters. Not even when he blasts the custom-made playlists Phil created on his speakers. Not even when he smuggles in Phil’s favorite blanket from their flat, the scent of his boyfriend’s cologne infused within the fabric. No, his dressing room will never be a second home.

Because that’s Phil’s dressing room.

It’s not perfect; not by a long shot. There are long, sprawling cracks in the walls that Phil’s artfully covered up with show reviews clipped from magazines and newspapers. It takes fifteen minutes and an enthusiastic kick to get the heater on. Maintaining a strong wifi connection is a pipe dream, and there’s barely enough standing room for them and the four friends who rotate in regularly, but it’s warm and it’s homey - a true embodiment of the person who inhabits it six days a week. Phil laughs it off, says  _it’s just a dressing room, Dan, calm down_ , but it’s so much more than that for him. So much more.

Maybe it’s the way there are pink light bulbs hanging from the tiny chandelier Phil bought on a whim after renewing his contract last spring; it bathes the room with shades of fuchsia and casts magenta-colored shadows on the walls. Maybe it’s the way Phil always has peach-scented candles burning, a reflection of the fruity cologne he’s partial to wearing. Walking into Phil’s dressing room is like walking into a Phil hug; Dan never wants to leave. Or maybe it’s the way everything in this room is so  _Phil_ ; ferns and flowers in colorful pots on the floor, rows of eccentric coffee mugs on the tiny little table they managed to fit in, pastel button-ups looking positively out-of-place when hung on the clothing rack full of costumes Phil squeezes into throughout the show. ( _Oh_   _my god_ , the costumes; coattails and checked suits. Obscenely tight pants with unbuttoned see-through shirts. Top hats and suspenders and knee highs and combat boots and - for one specific scene – lacy, red lingerie covered by the frilliest, skimpiest little negligee Dan has ever seen. Act II, Scene I. It’s his favorite part of the show.)

But when he thinks about it, Dan’s certain it’s because of the sofa tucked away in the corner of the room.

The sofa is from their first ever apartment together, bought off the previous owner of the only flat in London they could afford. They’d been young –  _so_  so young, and foolish, and naïve enough to think that hard-earned fine arts diplomas and stone-cold optimism would be enough to land them on the West End. That the months of unemployment wouldn’t turn to years, and that the part-time jobs they held in run down coffee shops and bookstores were just that; part-time.

Dan remembers long sleepless nights spent curled up away from the world, all tangled limbs and shared cups of tea and grandiose daydreams that distracted them from the bleakness of reality. He remembers words of encouragement whispered against skin shivering from the fear of failure and whiskey-fueled pinky promises to never give up on their dreams. He remembers passionate love-making after fruitful callbacks and angry fucks after painful rejections, and one particularly memorable night after Dan landed the role they’d both gone out for – Phil licking at finger-shaped bruises along slender hipbones, Dan scratching down pale thighs hard enough to draw blood. 

The stain on the armrest still smells like the coffee Dan spilled after landing his first chorus gig, and the faded streaks of stage makeup on the throw pillows serve as remnants of the many nights Phil had been too tired to wash his face. A lion plushie dressed in leather undergarments and fishnet stockings lies nestled between the cushions, a gag gift from a costume designer friend they went to uni with. 

That sofa has been through it all with them, and the sight of it makes Dan’s heart ache every time he sits on it. They’ve come so far, and they’ve only just begun.

“Don’t you have a revolution to start soon?”

Phil’s voice breaks Dan from his thoughts. He checks his watch. “Call time’s not for another thirty minutes, and the traffic’s not too terrible. I can….” Dan looks up from and promptly freezes, unspoken words dying in his throat.

Phil’s taken off the dressing robe and is stood in front of the vanity, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. He sucks his cheeks in and swoops a fluffy makeup brush across his face. Dark powder accentuates the sharpness of his cheekbones, the cut of his jawline. He’s fixed his hair to achieve the artfully disheveled look he’d wanted, fringe falling across his forehead in long strands that almost cover his eyes. His eyebrows are darker, exaggeratedly filled in, and the electric blue eye shadow he’s roughly smeared on makes the cerulean of his irises look deeper, colder. The fluorescent lights make his skin glow translucent, biceps taut underneath alabaster flesh that contradicts the gauntness of his face.

He looks seductively frightening. Terrifying beautiful.

Dan can’t stop staring.

His gaze travels past the broad expanse of Phil’s shoulder blades where dirty white suspenders wrap across his skin, down to the narrowness of his waist and the dimples on his lower back. The sight makes him swallow thickly; he knows those dimples well, knows how they feel underneath his palms, slippery slick with sweat.

Then he glances down to see tightest pair of leather shorts the London Theatre District has ever allowed on stage.

It clings to Phil’s body like a second skin, accentuating the curve of his cheeks, the fullness of his hips. The leather’s stretched to accommodate the way Phil’s leaning over, leaving very little to the imagination. It’s not the first time Dan’s seen this outfit – Phil’s been doing the show for a little over a year now – but it still makes him groan deep in his chest, heat building in his stomach.

His eyes flick back up to meet Phil’s gaze through the mirror. “Fucking hell, Phil,” he mutters, moving closer to the other man. “Remind me to ask your costume department about borrowing this for the weekend.”

Phil snorts, straightening up to press his back flush against Dan’s chest. “Didn’t know you were into the whole World War II-era prostitute look. What a strangely specific kink.”

“Hmmm…” Dan nuzzles into Phil’s neck, nosing at the juncture between his clavicle and shoulder. He smells like hairspray and lavender. It’s intoxicating.  “Let’s just say I know what I like….”

“Yeah?” Phil breathes, holding his gaze steady through the mirror. “And what exactly do you like?”

They’re a sight to see; Dan, in a leather jacket and two-day old gray t-shirt, five o’clock shadow slowly creeping in and hair curling from the summer humidity. Phil, in an ensemble that barely passes as actual clothing, all dolled up to look as mysterious and alluring as possible. It’s absolutely breath-taking. Dan wants to take a picture - just to preserve the moment -  but the feeling of Phil against him makes it too difficult to move.

“What do I like?” He brings a hand up to trail across Phil’s arm, smiling at the goose bumps that prickle under his touch. “I like my men like I like my coffee. Tall, dark, and covered in fake tattoos.” He traces the large black cross on Phil’s shoulder, careful not to mess up the body paint in case it’s not completely dry yet. He learned that lesson the hard way.

Phil giggles, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what Starbucks you’ve been going to, but we should probably call the HSE if you’re getting tattooed coffee.”

They stay like that for a while, Dan drawing patterns and swirls down his boyfriend’s body as Phil’s head rests against his shoulder. He traces a heart right above the black bow fixed in the middle of his chest, surprised to find Phil’s heartbeat thudding rapidly beneath the skin.

“You okay?” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to Phil’s temple.

The other man exhales slowly. “Yeah.  Just... nerves, I guess. For the show. It’s ridiculous; I should be used to this by now.”

“Hey,” Dan pecks another kiss onto his forehead. “S’not ridiculous. It’s normal. Nerves never really fade, do they? You can do a hundred shows and there’d still be loads of things that could go wrong, things that are out of your control.”

“You’re not helping.” Phil elbows at his stomach lightly and Dan laughs.

“Sorry. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about being nervous. Everyone gets nervous. Not just Best-Actor-In-a-Musical-Olivier Award winners like you.”

Phil blushes, lifting his head to glance at the bronze statue displayed on the coffee table. “I still can’t believe I won that. Like, I can’t believe that  _actually_ happened. I’m not yet convinced that they read the right name out.”

“Oh, please. Like you had any competition. Yeah, okay, Tveit was good and Barrowman had star power, but I’ve seen you watch Studio Ghibli movies in a Totoro onesie, then come out in  _this,”_  Dan gestures to Phil’s ensemble emphatically, “five hours later. You go can go from literal sunshine to sex on legs in an instant. That’s a goddamn talent, Lester. That’s why you’re absolutely  _mesmerizing_  to watch on stage.”

Phil blushes even harder, the warm flush of pink a stark contrast to the swirls of purple-ish gray powdered across his cheeks. “And here I was thinking it was the suspenders drawing everyone’s attention.”

Dan chuckles, wrapping his arms around the other boy to clutch at the strips of fabric in question. “Well, I’m sure they don’t hurt the view.” Quick as a wink, he pulls at the suspenders and lets them snap back against Phil’s chest, howling in laughter at his boyfriend’s surprised yelp.

“ _FUCKING_ HELL, WHAT THE – YOU FUCKER!”Phil whirls around to face Dan, clutching at his chest. “YOU ABSOLUTE _WANKER_ , OH MY GOD, THAT WAS ON MY NIPPLES, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.” But he’s laughing, too, tears prickling in his eyes. He tackles Dan into a hug and tickles his sides, crowing victoriously at his pleas of surrender. They’re laughing so hard that they almost don’t hear the sound of the intercom switching on, the soft chime of the fifteen-minute warning echoing in the room.

“Shit, I have to fix my makeup, thanks a lot…” Phil’s still grinning, tongue poking out as he carefully dabs at his eyes. Dan giggles as his hands find their way to the other man’s hips once more.

“Nah, you look fine. Your makeup should be a little streaky, anyway, right? It really adds another layer of trashiness to the character.” He pulls back suddenly, head cocked. “Wait, hold on. You’re missing the most important part.”

“Oh, the lipstick? Yeah, I always put it on last, it fades slower that way.” Phil turns back towards the mirror and picks up the small, red tube. He pops it open nonchalantly and twists it up. “You should probably get going, though,” He adds over his shoulder, “You’ll get in trouble for missing call time again.”

Dan waves him off flippantly, coming up behind him once more. “Let them wait,” he murmurs, reaching around to pluck the tube from Phil’s fingers. “I wanna help.”

Their eyes lock in the mirror again, Phil’s unnaturally dark eyebrows raised. Dan stares back, his gaze so earnest that Phil sighs, turning around so that his back presses against the vanity. He glances down at the watch on Dan’s wrist. “Your call time…” he warns.

Dan shushes him, stepping closer so their chests almost touch. “The boys at the barricade can wait a few more minutes. Right now, Enjolras has something a little more interesting to do…”  An idea strikes and he grinds his hips against Phil’s, relishing in the gasp it pulls from the older man.

“Dan,  _fuck…_ ”

Dan smirks, leaning forward to brush his lips against Phil’s. “Keep your mouth open, love…” he whispers.

Breathing heavy, Phil complies. Dan hooks an arm around his waist and pulls him close, gripping the lipstick tube with his other hand. Slowly – ever so slowly – he dabs it onto Phil’s lips, creamy red wax smearing across his mouth like blood. Dan takes his time, tracing the outline of Phil’s cupid’s bow, the lush curve of his lower lip. Phil’s watching him intently, eyes dark and full of want. The other man groans softly when Dan pulls back to lick his own lips, copying the action subconsciously.

“Finished?” he breathes.

Dan blinks. All he can focus on is the fullness of Phil’s lips, stained cherry-red and perfectly smooth. They’re full and plump and parted slightly, and when Phil’s pink tongue darts out to lick once more, he’s gone.

Surging forward, he captures Phil’s mouth in a greedy kiss, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. Phil moans, hands reaching up to fist in Dan’s hair. Makeup clatters off the vanity as Dan pulls their bodies flush, fingers trailing down Phil’s back to squeeze his ass. Phil shudders against him, and then his tongue is rubbing against the top of Dan’s mouth, and  _fuck_  everything feels so good and-

Dan’s phone goes off with a loud chirp, startling him so much that he pulls away in surprise. He fumbles to pull  it from his pocket, cursing under his breath when he sees the angry string of texts from his stage director.

“I told you you’d get in trouble…”

Dan looks up, sarcastic retort at the ready, but his mind short circuits when he sees Phil’s lips, swollen and bitten and glistening with spit. His lipstick is smeared, bleeding into the corners of his mouth, and his chest heaves as he pants for breath, leaning his forearms against the vanity.

Phil looks absolutely  _wrecked_  – the perfect picture of debauchery. This time, Dan doesn’t hesitate; he raises his phone and snaps a photo.

“Perv,” Phil laughs, straightening up again.  He ambles toward Dan, a wicked grin on his face.

Dan quirks an eyebrow when Phil grabs at his hand, but his breath hitches when the other man brings it up to drag his thumb across his own mouth, eyes never leaving his. Phil holds it up for Dan to see; his thumb is covered in lipstick, skin stained the same shade as his boyfriend’s lips.

Phil’s grin grows even wickeder. “I can’t wait to hear what your cast mates will say once they see you.”

Dan steps closer, feeling bold. “They’ll congratulate me on landing the hottest piece of ass on the West End since Jeremy Taylor.” He reaches down towards the fly of Phil’s shorts, snaking his stained thumb inside and pressing it against his pelvic bone. Pulling the leather back, they both look down to see the perfect imprint of his thumb on Phil’s skin, carefully hidden away. Dan smiles triumphantly, leaning forward to whisper in Phil’s ear.

“Just a little incentive to have a good show tonight. There’ll be more of that later, if you’re up for it.”

The grin on Phil’s face slides straight off, replaced with jaw-slacked wonder. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are, fucking hell… ”

Dan winks. His phone buzzes angrily, and he glances down. “Shit, I really have to go now.” He presses another quick kiss to Phil’s lips. “Meet me after my show?”

Phil nods. “I’ll try and get there in time for your ridiculously extravagant death scene.”

“I’ll add in a few extra shouts of pain, just for you.” Dan heads for the door, pulling it open. “I love you,” he calls over his shoulder. “Break a leg!”

“You too!” Phil laughs, waving. “But don’t actually break anything, okay?”

“No promises.”

Dan steps out, reaching back to close the door behind him, but he pauses. Through the tiny crack in the door, he sees Phil turn to face the mirror once more. He’s still smiling, hand rubbing unconsciously against the thumbprint hidden underneath his shorts. Then he closes his eyes, inhales slowly, and stills.

Dan holds his breath.

Phil’s eyes shoot open and there’s a newfound darkness in them. His gaze is heady, lustful, dominant. His posture changes, hip cocked and chest puffed out. He clears his throat, and then…

“ _Mein Damen und Herren… Mesdames et Messieurs… Ladies and Gentlemen… Welcome… to the Cabaret!”_

Dan closes the door quietly. He wishes he could stay, wishes he could watch until the curtain rises and the audience saw Phil slip into one of the most beautifully complex characters in the entire anthology of musical theatre, but he’s late enough as it is and his understudy is probably freaking out. Heat pools in his stomach as he thinks of the things the audience will see Phil do tonight, the filth and depravity that will be performed on stage.

But of course, Phil saves his best performance for after the curtain call. The man’s dressing room may be Dan’s home away from home, but nothing beats being back in their flat, lying in their bed, watching Phil put on a show for an eager audience of one.

Dan can’t wait until the curtain falls.

 


End file.
